Category: Andrea Skevington

A while ago, I found myself in Ipswich hospital. Once things had calmed down a bit, I was moved to Brantham Assessment Unit, where the lady described in the poem brought me tea. As well as the NHS doctors who diagnosed, and prescribed medicine that made me better, there were people whose presence, kindness, and generosity of spirit was remarkably healing. She was one of them. It was so precious at the time, and still now the memory helps. A simple cup of tea – it meant so much. Continue reading “Tea-maker by Andrea Skevington”→

As we enter into Lent, I have been thinking about pilgrimage, journeys, wandering in a wilderness, being unsure of the way and the destination. I have been reading Malcolm Guite’s wonderful Word in the Wilderness anthology of poetry, and I turned back to this poem of mine, and looked at it through the eyes of the wanderer in the desert.

The poem was written a few years ago for the Alive Festival, which used to run here in Suffolk, UK. We were looking for something for our Sunday morning gathering, something which spoke of our sense of longing for home. Something that would help with the journey. As I was searching, these words began to circle in my mind They would not leave me alone. I had to walk them out, pacing restlessly until the poem below took its form.

It draws from many of the stories in the Bible which help us make sense of our life’s journey. They filled my mind as I paced. Imagery from Genesis 3 which many churches read together as we prepare for Easter, seemed the starting point. I moved on to homesickness and exile, which are threads that run through much of the Hebrew scriptures, and also of the discomfort of wilderness, which seems very good to remember now, as we think of Jesus in the wilderness. But I did not stay there. My imagination circled round to images drawn from the very end of the book of Revelation All these images flowed together, as part of a larger, arching story.

I read this poem that morning at the Alive festival, set to astonishingly beautiful music – Arvo Paart’s Spiegel im Spiegel , played then by Andrew Lord and Jonathan Evans. The music still moves me to tears.

I hope this poem helps you today, as you walk, whether the way seems hard, or gentle. May you come to a place of home.

Returning

We left the garden long ago,
Do you remember, though,
still, the trees heavy with fruit,
and how sweet it was?
To stretch out your hand was to be blessed.
Do you remember the cool waters of that deep river
silver with fish, alive and shining in the splashing sun?
And the flowers, bending and bending with the
weight of bees, the low hum of the land
that flowed with milk and honey?
He walked with us then, in the garden.

We have been wanderers for so long
in strange lands, wanderers looking
for a place of shelter, a place to lay down
the heavy loads we gathered at the gate,
when we left the garden. The pain we bear
so hard to bear for it is borne alone.

Our songs dried on our lips, the echoes of the
garden growing distant, and small:
the rhymes of the children playing in the apple tree,
the laughter and the ease of love,
hope’s courage failing as the long dry road
wound through high and rocky passes
where nothing grows.

The path home is long, but that it what it is,
the path home to the garden,
to return to that place so distant
it has become the place of dreams.
And the gate stands before us,
terrible and splashed with blood,
the gate love made to bring us home.
And the gate is always open,
and beyond, beyond the Tree grows strong,
its green leaves fresh and full of light,
And the river flows deep and wide,
Deep, and wide, and always.
And you know the voice,
you have heard the voice say
Come, all you who have been thirsty for so long,
Come and lay your burdens down,
rest, and drink from these bright waters.
I am your home, your refuge, your song.

John 1: 1-5

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.

Andrea Skevington lives in Suffolk, and draws inspiration from the world and the community around her. Her work includes poetry, stories – mainly for children, and inspirational work in the Christian tradition. she has worked with children in schools and churches, and has a particular interest in retelling the Bible. She has led retreats and creative writing workshops for adults, spoken at festivals, and share my poetry and my thoughts. She also writes for Quiet Spaces “A creative response to God’s love”, and has written meditations on Women in Genesis, the medieval mystical work The Cloud of Unknowing, the I Am sayings of Jesus, the poems of Emily Dickinson, and many others.

Earlier this week, a friend asked me how to read a poem. It was a question I have been asked before, and so I felt I should know how to give a better answer than I did. Of course, it may depend on the poem, and the mind and the training of the mind of the reader. A good response to the question will take these things into account.

The exchange stayed with me, so I took some of the phrases of my answer, and wrote them in my notebook sitting on the garden bench later in the day. I found they formed a small poem themselves, inviting other words to join them – it’s what they seemed to want to do.

I begin with the mind – at school, so many of us ended up approaching poetry as if it were a form of cryptography, as if the pesky poet had deliberately concealed a meaning and we had to puzzle it out. Poetry rarely holds that kind of meaning. In this, it is similar to story, as I was thinking in my previous post about parables. The mind is a great resource in reading, and writing, and good academic rigor can seriously deepen our joy in a poem, but, for the nervous reader, it is not a good place to start.

Try starting like this, and see if that helps.

Let your mind rest.
Do not pursue it anxiously,
grasping for meaning.
There is no riddle here
that must be solved
or else doom will fall.
No puzzle to puzzle
for a prize.
Let the sounds of the words
soak you,
water you.
Let the colours of the words
fill your eyes.
Receive it all, then,
with a yes,
hold the words
cool and dripping
in your cupped mind.
Come back,
come back again, for
something that snagged
your dreams
like the dark brambles
over an autumn path.
Come back.
In time, the words may
open to you.
You may taste
their sweet sharpness.
They may grow in you,
nourishing you again
and again.

John 1: 1-5

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.

Andrea Skevington lives in Suffolk, and draws inspiration from the world and the community around her. Her work includes poetry, stories – mainly for children, and inspirational work in the Christian tradition. she has worked with children in schools and churches, and has a particular interest in retelling the Bible. She has led retreats and creative writing workshops for adults, spoken at festivals, and share my poetry and my thoughts. She also writes for Quiet Spaces “A creative response to God’s love”, and has written meditations on Women in Genesis, the medieval mystical work The Cloud of Unknowing, the I Am sayings of Jesus, the poems of Emily Dickinson, and many others.